Murder in House

By Veronica Heley

 

After her first husband's death, Ellie Quicke discovered that she was stronger than she'd thought. By networking in the community, she'd even solved some neighbourhood crimes. Now married to the Reverend Thomas – her best friend as well as her dear love – she was finding marriage second time round deeply satisfying, but this didn't mean she knew all the answers, especially where murder was concerned. --the tenth of the "Ellie Quicke Mysteries."

 

Ellie and her new husband are suffering from terrible colds when called to deal with  Ursula, a student who has staged a sit-in at church and refuses to move. Ursula challenges Ellie to solve three mysteries; a broken engagement, her friend Mia's disappearance and a murder. When Ellie agrees to return Ursula's engagement ring to her fiancé, she begins to suspect that there is more to Mia's disappearance and the `accidental' death of another friend than their families and the police are willing to admit.  As Ellie attempts to solve the mysteries, she finds her friends and family targeted, as a powerful group hunt her down.

 

Excerpt:

 

`Get that vodka down him! Pick him up under his arms, drag him to the balcony and heave him over.'

 

`She'll tell!'

 

`She's not capable of telling anyone anything at the moment, is she? When she comes round we'll say he got drunk and took a swing at you. Misjudged the distance, went over the edge. All together . . . and over!'

 

Sunday lunchtime

 

Ellie didn't often go down with a cold, but this one had been a blinder. She wasn't the only person to go down with it, of course. Sometimes it seemed as if the whole world was suffering from it. Even her beloved husband, who was normally as strong as an ox – if you could have an ox who looked like an old-time steamship captain complete with beard – even he'd been forced to spend a couple of days in bed and had only just recovered his appetite.

 

The temperature had plummeted overnight, the rain had turned to sleet, the roads were black with slush, and Thomas ought to have been convalescing in the warm. Unfortunately, one of his clerical friends had rung to say he'd gone down with pleurisy and could Thomas take the morning service for him. Being Thomas, he'd stuffed his pockets with cough sweets and gone.

 

Ellie stayed at home to drink honey and lemon and prepare roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and all the trimmings against his return. She knew that both of them ought really to be on a diet of lettuce leaves to reduce waistlines expanding with middle age and a love of good food, but in the aftermath of a heavy cold and in such bitter weather, surely it was right to pamper oneself a bit?

 

She looked at the clock. Thomas was late and she was worried the food would spoil. At that very moment, he let himself in. 

 

`Ellie, light of my life, I have a problem. Could you put lunch on the back burner?  A teenaged girl has staged a sit-in at church and won't leave. She refuses to tell me or the churchwarden what's troubling her, but she might talk to you.'

 

Ellie was horrified. `What, me? Go out, now?' She sneezed and said, `No way!' at the same time.

Thomas put his arm about her. `I know you're not feeling a hundred per cent, the weather's filthy, and we've both been looking forward to a good meal. But would it hurt to put it back it for an hour? The girl's brought a sleeping bag, and proposes to stay the night!'                       

 

 

The church was one of those brick edifices built in the twenties, seemingly designed to keep builders constantly in work on repairs, with flat roofs and chapels sticking out here and there. Thomas used his borrowed key to let them directly into the vestry.

 

The girl had made herself very much at home. She was sitting on a folded-up sleeping bag, with a colourful holdall beside her. Her skin was clear, innocent of make-up; was warmly dressed in jeans, a couple of heavy sweaters and good-looking boots. . . and was engaged in straightening her long, honey-coloured hair with battery-operated tongs. She had the electric fire on, and had poured herself out a cup of something from a Thermos flask.

 

Thomas gave a giant sneeze and mopped himself up. `This is my wife, Ellie Quicke, who is good at sorting out people's problems. Would you like to tell her what's troubling you?'

 

The girl looked Ellie over, but her remote expression didn't change. `You don't have to worry about me. I'll leave the place tidy and let myself out in the morning.'

 

Ellie blew her nose. Coming in from the cold always set her off. `I didn't see any banners up outside the church. What are you doing a sit-in for? I'm dying for my lunch. So is Thomas. But I suppose if you're having a sit-in, we'd better sit it out with you.'

 

`No need for that.' The girl put the tongs away in her bag. `I'd rather be alone.'

 

Thomas swivelled round. `A hermit job? Isolation, peace and quiet? Trying to shut out the world's noise and listen to what God is saying to you?'

 

`God?' She considered the matter. `I'm not sure I believe in God. I'm doing this for someone who did believe in God. Then I'll have closure and can move on.'

 

Ellie made a guess. `He . . . whoever he is . . . is dead? A boyfriend?' The girl was attractive in a big-boned sort of way. Not beautiful, exactly, but she had an interesting face. Of course she would have a boyfriend.

 

The girl shrugged. `My boyfriend's still alive, but you can go off people, you know.' She brought her knees up to her chin. `I promised myself I'd do this for him, and I don't break my promises.'

 

`Not a boyfriend?'

 

`One of the crowd. He'd too much to drink at a party in the New Year, got into a quarrel, took a swing at someone, toppled over a balcony and that was that. It wasn't murder.'

 

`Then why did you use the word?'

 

Long eyelashes were lowered, eyelashes the same colour as her hair, both honey blonde. `I was stupid, thinking I'd get some sort of message from God if I stayed on alone in the church. Of course it wasn't murder. The police said it wasn't and they should know, shouldn't they?'

 

`You disagree?'

 

Ursula treated Ellie to a look in which calculation overlaid doubt. `Your husband said you were good at solving mysteries. How about investigating a disappearance, a broken engagement, and an accidental death which was really a murder?' She pulled a chain out from under her sweater, undid the clasp and slid a gold ring from it. `Perhaps you'd like to return it to him for me.'

 

Ellie blinked. `What . . .? Who . . .? No, I –'

 

`Daniel Collins. Park Gardens. He'll understand. No message.'

 

 

 

Veronica Heley

www.veronicaheley.com

 

From good bookshops everywhere. Also available from Amazon – see the link on my website.

 

Do not reproduce without permission.

 

Scent of Murder

by Virginia Smith

www.virginiasmith.org

 

 

Scent of Murder is the third and final installment in Virginia Smith's Classical Trio Series. This time the trio is scheduled to play their last wedding at an artist colony in the Blue Hills of Indiana. Caitlin, who is reeling from being dumped by her long-time boyfriend, has sworn off men for a full year to give herself time to heal. But that's before she meets Chase Hollister, the handsome owner of a scented candle factory. Before she knows it, she and Chase are caught up in a haunting crime from his past – and pursued by a deadly killer in the present.

 

 

"Plenty of action and suspense, a fine mystery and the knowledge that the love of God is for everyone, no matter what they've done." – Romantic Times, 4 ½ Star Review

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

The rising sun glimmered in the eastern sky as Chase Hollister followed a well-defined trail that skirted the edge of Brown County State Park. He maintained a brisk pace, though low branches from the dense trees made running impossible. Night clung to the forest around him with stubborn determination, even as tendrils of sunlight threatened its tenacious hold. Chase welcomed the shadowy darkness. It suited his mood.

 

A lingering chill penetrated his T-shirt and sent a shiver rippling through his body. Nights in early May here in Indiana were still pretty cold. He should have grabbed a lightweight jacket on his way out of the house.

 

Scratch that. He should have kept to the open road for his morning run, where the heat of exertion would have kept him warm. What possessed him to come to the park before dawn—again?

 

Chase climbed over a dead tree limb lying across the path. No matter how determined he was not to haunt this place, he kept returning.

 

Not as often as before. A year ago, right after the tragedy— his mind skipped across the details, best not go there—he'd wandered these trails almost daily. His parents assumed he'd found some sort of comfort in surrounding himself with nature. Maybe they thought he was praying. And Chase had done some praying, if his repeated questions of Why, Lord? Why didn't I see it? How could I miss it? counted as prayers. But no answers had been forthcoming, and the questions still tortured Chase, almost a year later.

 

And he still wandered the park trails every few weeks. How sad was that?

 

The shadows lost their tenuous grip on the wooded area around him, and Chase could now make out a few more details. A movement up ahead turned out to be a deer. He caught sight of a patch of white fur as it scurried off and disappeared into the forest, no doubt startled to see anyone out at this early hour. Something rustled the thick green leaves in the tree overhead. The residents of the park were waking.

 

He heard the stream before he saw it, smelled the fresh, rich scent of mud from the shore. The trail turned sharply and ran alongside the wide stream for fifty yards or so, to the place where the path ended at the road. Chase tensed when he glimpsed a dark structure, the covered bridge that stood sentinel over the north entrance to the park. And beneath it…

 

He set his teeth together. The place that drew him here. That haunted him.

 

How many times had he told himself he would not come back here, that he needed to put the past behind him and move on? And yet, here he was.

His step slowed as he neared the trail's end. The stream splashed along beside him, the sound an almost joyful counterpoint to his dire thoughts. I was too focused on myself, on my stupid infatuation with Leslie. If I'd paid more attention to my friend, surely I would have known. I could have helped him.

 

His throat tightened like a clenched fist, a familiar feeling lately. I'm so sorry, Kevin.

 

The sun had not yet risen above the trees to his left, so the wide, muddy area beneath the bridge was still in shadows. Try though he might, Chase couldn't stop himself from staring at the place where the nightmare had begun.

His footsteps faltered. The shore wasn't empty. Something was there, something big. Black. It was…

 

Chase's mouth went dry. A car. The front tires rested in the water, the rear end angled upward on the steep bank.

 

He broke into a run. One corner of his mind noted the angle of the tire tracks in the soft soil as he splashed into the stream. The car had been driven, or maybe pushed, off the two-lane road a few feet before entering the covered bridge. Icy water wet Chase's sweatpants up to the knees. He barely noticed. His fingers grasped the door handle and jerked. Locked. He shielded his eyes and peered through the window.

 

Acid surged into Chase's throat. He jerked away, stomach roiling. No doubt at all what had killed the person inside. Dark stains covered the man's clothing and the car's interior. An ugly wound gaped in his throat.

 

Just like Kevin.

 

Chase stumbled to the shore and fell to his knees. Mud seeped through his pants, but he didn't move.

 

Lord, no—it can't happen again.

--------------

Copyright © 2009 by Virginia Smith

For more information about Scent of Murder, and the other books in the Classical Trio Series, visit www.virginiasmith.org.

 

Listen to the author read the entire first chapter to you here:

http://bigcontact.com/VirginiaSmithBookExcerpts/scent-of-murder-chapter-1

 

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